


Kris Allen Has Never Seen The Pillow Book

by Lenore



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF
Genre: American Idol - RPS, First Time, Kink, M/M, Mansion Fic, Plot What Plot, Porn, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam writes his phone number on Kris's arm. Kris has feelings about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kris Allen Has Never Seen The Pillow Book

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for my [Birthday Smut-a-Thon](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com/522865.html) for [](http://cathalin.livejournal.com/profile)[**cathalin**](http://cathalin.livejournal.com/)'s prompt "discovering a new kink" and the suggestion of writing on the body. The title refers to the [movie by Peter Greenaway](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0114134/). Big thanks to [](http://mistresscurvy.livejournal.com/profile)[**mistresscurvy**](http://mistresscurvy.livejournal.com/) for her help on the story. I'm a little fuzzy on some aspects of the timeline, so let's just say that in this universe Kris and Adam are roommates until the end of Idol, okay? Thanks!

It all starts so innocently.

"I don't even have your number."

Adam looks up, but doesn't pause his packing, wrestling what looks to be a purple feather boa into his already over-stuffed suitcase. "That's because I'm a man of mystery. Don't try to pin me down, Allen!"

"Shut up," Kris says, grinning, fumbling in his pocket for his… "Okay, I _had_ my phone."

"Hmm." Adam adopts a thoughtful expression. "I believe last time you found it wedged between the sofa cushions, and the time before that with the Corn Pops in the kitchen cabinet, and the time before that—"

"Not helping."

"Okay, here." Adam brandishes a Sharpie, taking the two steps over to Kris's bed, reaching for Kris's arm, pushing plaid out of the way.

The marker tickles on Kris's skin. The pink tip of Adam's tongue peeks out from between his lips as he concentrates on not smudging the numbers, and once Kris notices that, he can't look anywhere else.

"There," Adam declares, putting the cap back on the pen with a flourish.

"I'll never wash again," Kris tells him, with the gob-smacked expression of the fans who bring _We heart you Adam_ signs spelled out in glitter to every show.

Adam smirks. "That wrist is going to be worth something on eBay one day."

He finishes packing, a flurry of leather and sequins. The zipper on the suitcase groans pitifully, but Adam somehow manages to get it closed. That's it, time to go, and Kris is wearing Adam's phone number on his skin, which just emphasizes that he's never needed it before, because Adam was always _right there_.

Adam puts his hands on his hips. "Yeah, don't think you're getting off that easy. Get your ass on over here."

Kris laughs as he shuffles over, into Adam's arms, and that feels as much like homecoming as anything ever will. He rests his head on Adam's shoulder, arms around Adam's waist, and marvels, as he always does, how they just seem to fit. Adam doesn't let go for a good, long while, nothing half-hearted about his hugs; he's dependable that way.

"I—" Kris stammers, feeling stupid, because it's only going to be _a few days_.

Adam gets it, though, and smiles softly. "Yeah. Me too."

  
Kris finds his phone, eventually, about five seconds before he needs to leave for the airport, so there's no time to put Adam's number in it. He sleeps on the plane, and then on the connecting flight, and then _hello, Arkansas_, his wife and family and friends and what looks to be just about every person in the state waiting to meet him. He laughs, giddy and with just a little edge of panic, and hugs Katy and his mom, and lets himself be carried along by the momentum of camera flashes and press interviews and _can I have your autograph?_. When he falls asleep much, much later that night, his phone has gone missing again, and he still has Adam on his skin.

He finds the phone the next morning when it rings, half buried beneath a pile of clothes he's dumped out of his suitcase, and he smiles when a very familiar voice says, "So, you wash that hand yet?"

Kris snorts a laugh, and doesn't mention that he did hold his arm gingerly out of the spray in the shower that morning, _but only because he hadn't had a chance to write down the number yet_.

"It better not be permanent," Kris threatens, good-naturedly, although now that he's thinking about it, he has had this too-hot kind of tingle on his wrist ever since Adam wrote on him. "Or toxic."

"Please!" Adam scoffs, and then, with what sounds suspiciously like a giggle, "Well, probably not, anyway."

"_Adam_!"

"See you soon. Kiss the Arkansans for me," Adam says cheerfully and hangs up.

Thankfully, the strenuous application of Irish Spring turns the black numbers to a barely visible gray. By the next morning, the writing has worn off completely, although Kris can still feel the ghost of it, a faint buzz that just won't go away.

Maybe he's allergic to the ink.

  
Not that this stops Kris from taking up the habit when he gets back to the mansion, of using his palms, his arms, whatever won't show on television as makeshift notebooks. It's just…easy. No need to scramble around looking for paper, and, hey, here's one thing he can't lose. He turns over his pen to one of the PA's so she can scribble the next day's schedule on him, and he jots down directions to a club where a band he wants to check out is playing, and Danny feels the need to add his autograph just because he's Danny. None of it makes Kris's skin tingle, and he figures it must have been something particular about Adam's pen.

Adam watches this development with a raised eyebrow, and Kris just shrugs, because he really doesn't know, and anyway what does it matter? He expects Adam to laugh it off and stop watching, but days go by, and the scrutiny just grows more intense. When they're alone in their room together, Kris jotting notes about arrangements on his hand, the scrutiny turns to all-out staring, as if Kris is a problem in need of solving.

"What?" Kris finally demands. It's just _convenient_. Is that really so hard to understand?

"You know," Adam regards him thoughtfully. "I wouldn't do this if you weren't begging for it."

"What—"

But Adam is already up, crossing the room, yanking Kris's T-shirt up over his head and dumping it on the floor.

"Um." Kris opens his mouth to say something more, but, hey, yeah, so this is being struck speechless.

"Just leave this to me, okay?" Adam plucks the pen out of Kris's hand and guides him, with a hand on his shoulder, over onto his belly.

The bed dips, and Adam's weight settles across Kris, Adam's knees pressed against Kris's hips. The air leaves Kris's body in a rush and returns in a shaky gasp when the tip of the pen touches Kris's skin, Adam's sprawling cursive traveling across his shoulder.

"God!" The groan feels torn out of him, a sound he doesn't even recognize, and he's instantly hard and shuddering and, and— "_Adam_."

"Just let go, baby. I got you," Adam croons, and the marker scratch, scratches over Kris's skin, slow and deliberate and teasing.

Kris sucks in another aching breath, shivering so hard it feels like his bones are rattling around in his skin, and the urge to thrust, hips pressed hard into the mattress swamps him. "Please," he begs, helplessly, pushing up into Adam with every desperate jerk of his body.

"Mm," Adam murmurs encouragingly, bending to brush a kiss to the nape of Kris's neck.

Kris whimpers, and if he didn't have other things on his mind right now, he'd laugh at what an idiot he is, not realizing _this_, thinking there was something about _Adam's pen_.

"So good, so beautiful," Adam tells him, stroking warm fingers over Kris's back, filling up Kris's skin like a blank canvas.

By the time Adam turns him over, face to face, Kris is trembling, liquid with want, a hair trigger away from coming in his jeans like a teenager who's never been touched before. Adam looms over him, big and gorgeous, dark hair falling messily into his face, mouth soft, eyes heavy-lidded. It's a view, Kris realizes with a start, that Adam's lovers must have of him.

Adam swipes the pen up Kris's arm, and Kris cranes his head to see. _Kris Allen has obviously never seen_ The Pillow Book. That's a movie maybe, Kris thinks. Adam bends close to give Kris's collarbone some attention, breath warm on Kris's skin. "It's relevant to your interests," Adam tells him. "Trust me on this."

Kris nods. He will. He does. When Adam starts scribbling down Kris's chest, brushing Kris's nipples with his knuckles in a way that doesn't seem entirely accidental, Kris can't help jerking his hips, hard-on insistent against Adam's ass. Heat burns up Kris's face, and Adam rests his weight more heavily, rubbing against Kris's erection, smiling down at him.

At the line of Kris's jeans, Adam stops, flirting a finger along the sensitive skin there. Kris nods, and Adam peels the jeans down his legs. The wet spot—okay, more than a spot—on Kris's underwear makes the fabric stick to his skin, rubbing against his hard-on cock a little uncomfortably. Adam strokes a hand up and down one of Kris's legs, more reassurance than caress, and starts to scrawl something over the other. Kris squirms restlessly, making the pen jump and skip, and finally enough is enough, and he shrugs out of his briefs impatiently. Adam tosses them over his shoulder and makes a pretense of going back to the writing, although what he's really doing is staring, at Kris's cock, red and wet against Kris's belly.

Kris wants to touch himself so badly, but he's not sure what's allowed, so he grabs at the bedspread instead, fingers twisting and clenching.

"You can, you know." Adam meets Kris's eye, his expression so beautifully unguarded, as he presses a soft, deliberate kiss to Kris's knee, hands stroking over Kris's hips.

Kris could, and, God know he wants to, but that would be a lie, the worst kind, a lie of the body. Because this isn't about the pen on his skin—or at least not only that—and he's not going to pretend otherwise.

He tugs at Adam's jeans. "Off."

Adam hesitates, eyes dark with questions. "Kris—I wasn't going to—"

"_Off_."

It takes just a moment longer for Adam to decide, and then he slides off the bed, and strips, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor. Kris has seen Adam in various stages of naked—roommates do—has seen the starburst of freckles over his shoulders and the soft paleness of his belly, but he's never seen Adam like this, turned on, hungry, focused on Kris like nothing else exists in the world. Adam kneels on the bed, and pure adrenaline skitters along every nerve Kris has, electric and anticipatory.

He sighs happily at the touch of Adam's skin, all along his body, as Adam stretches out over him. The kiss starts slow, almost tentative, Adam brushing his lips over Kris's, getting to know him in a whole new way. Kris moans anyway, at just that little bit of contact, because Adam's _mouth_, and that's the spark that catches, from careful to frenzied in an eyeblink, deep shuddering kisses, hands groping, bodies moving together, a smear of ink.

Adam nudges at Kris's leg, and Kris gets the message, wraps them around Adam's waist, gasping out loud at the shockingly good sensation of his cock sliding against Adam's.

"Kris," Adam murmurs against Kris's neck, breath hot on his skin, licking and biting, leaving a different kind of mark.

Kris thrusts his hands into Adam's thick, soft hair and kisses him desperately. The writing-on-skin-thing truly did come out of the blue, but the Adam-thing…well, in hindsight Kris can see how this has been brewing since—maybe since always, all the times he's watched, wondered, wanted. And now Adam is _here_, pressed so close, and if he just slides his hands beneath Kris's hips, cants him up, he could—they could be even closer. Kris raises his legs higher up on Adam's back, thighs opening wider, suggesting, inviting.

"Oh, baby, I want to—" Adam kisses him deeply. "But one thing at a time."

He scoops Kris up, an arm behind Kris's back, maneuvering Kris so he's straddling Adam's lap. It's weird to be the small one, easily manhandled, but, hey, also hot as hell. Kris rubs clumsily against Adam's chest, increasingly desperate.

"Mm, I got you, baby," Adam purrs.

And he does, wrapping one big hand around both their cocks, jerking them off together. God, Adam _has_ Kris, and he can't—he has to—the last thing he hears is the low growl that spills out of Adam when he comes.

They collapse back onto the bed, and Kris is floating, sated and happy, and even as he's wishing that this moment would last forever, he knows it won't. Knows that this could go so many different ways. It could be weird, or they could laugh it off, and maybe even pretend it never happened at all, no lines crossed. They could. Or…

Kris reaches for Adam's hand. "We could watch _The Pillow Book_ sometime." He hesitates. "Um, it is a movie, right?"

Adam laughs, but he laces their fingers together and holds on tight. It's exactly the way Kris wants it to go.

 


End file.
